Poems begining by W
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Who Is A Christian?
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Who is a Christian in this Christian land
Of many churches and of lofty spires?
Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews
Bought by the profits of unholy greed,
Words On The Window-Pane
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
DID she in summer write it, or in spring,
Or with this wail of autumn at her ears,
What Is Life?
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Resembles Life what once was held of Light,
Too ample in itself for human sight?
An absolute Self--an element ungrounded--
All, that we see, all colours of all shade
When I Behold The Lark
© Bernard de Ventadorn
When I behold the lark upspring
To meet the bright sun joyfully,
Watercolor Of Grantchester Meadows
© Sylvia Plath
There, spring lambs jam the sheepfold. In air
Stilled, silvered as water in a glass
Nothing is big or far.
The small shrew chitters from its wilderness
Written In A Young Lady's Album
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Sweet friend, the world, like some fair infant blessed,
Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays;
Wein Geist
© Charles Godfrey Leland
I STOOMPLED oud ov a dafern,
Breauscht mit a gallon of wein,
Und I rooshed along de strassen,
Like a derriple Eberschwein.
Woman's Trifling Needs
© Mercy Otis Warren
AN inventory clear of all she needs Lamira offers here; Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown When she lays by the rich embroidered gown, And modestly compounds for just enough- Perhaps, some dozens of more flighty stuff; With lawns and lustrings, blond, and Mechlin laces, Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases; memory Gay cloaks, and hats of every shape and size, Scarfs, cardinals, and ribbons of all dyes; With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour, Tippets and handkerchiefs, at least three score; With finest muslins that fair India boasts, And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts; (But while the fragrant hyson leaf regales, Who'll wear the homespun produce of the vales? For if 'twould save the nation from the curse Of standing troops; or-name a plague still worse- Few can this choice, delicious draught give up, Though all Medea's poisons fill the cup
Wanderers Song
© Arthur Symons
I have had enough of women, and enough of love,
But the land waits, and the sea waits, and day and night is enough;
Give me a long white road, and the grey wide path of the sea.
And the wind's will and the bird's will, and the heart-ache still in me.
What I can doI will
© Emily Dickinson
What I can doI will
Though it be little as a Daffodil
That I cannotmust be
Unknown to possibility
Words Heard, By Accident, Over The Phone
© Sylvia Plath
O mud, mud, how fluid! --
Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.
Speak, speak! Who is it?
It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.
It is he who has achieved these syllables.
Westland Row
© James Brunton Stephens
Every Sunday there's a throng
Of pretty girls, who trot along
In a pious, breathless state
(They are nearly always late)
To the Chapel, where they pray
For the sins of Saturday.
Woodrow Wilson
© Robinson Jeffers
It said "Yet perhaps your vision was less great
Than some you scorned, it has not proved even so practicable;
Lenin
Enters this pass with less reluctance. As to betrayals: there are so
many
Betrayals, the Russians and the Germans know."
We Are Accused Of Terrorism
© Nizar Qabbani
We are accused of terrorism
If we dare to write about the remains of a homeland
That is scattered in pieces and in decay
In decadence and disarray
About a homeland that is searching for a place
And about a nation that no longer has a face
Were My Bosom As False as Thou Deem'st It To Be
© George Gordon Byron
Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.
When My Ship Comes In
© Edgar Albert Guest
You shall have satin and silk to wear,
When my ship comes in;
What Hidden Sweetness Is There
© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
217
What hidden sweetness there is in this emptiness of the belly!
Wind On The Sea
© Arthur Symons
The loneliness of the sea is in my heart,
And the wind is not more lonely than this grey mind.
I have thought far thoughts, I have loved, I have loved, and I find
Love gone, thought weary, and I alas, left behind.
